Two Days, Thirty-Four Minutes, and Forty-Five Seconds
by the-speed-reader
Summary: Two days, thirty-four minutes, and forty-five seconds after her partner literately ceased to exist, the blonde found herself pressed tightly against the plain white wall in the Pablo Alto apartment, the cool tile pressed hard against her bare feet, her knees pulled to her chest, wet tears falling down her cheeks with every heartbeat she heard through her chest. *One-shot*


_I started watching YJ and reading YJ fanfiction and I literally balled my eyes out for a few hours when, yet again, I got overwhelmed with the fact that WALLY IS DEAD! HE'S DEAD! GONE! AND I'M GONNA START CRYING AGAIN DAMN IT!_

_So my imagination drew up this little piece to get all my feelings out._

_I have no regrets. None. At. All._

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><p>Two days, thirty-four minutes, and forty-five seconds after her partner literately ceased to exist, the blonde found herself pressed tightly against the plain white wall in the Pablo Alto apartment, the cool tile pressed hard against her bare feet, her knees pulled to her chest, wet tears falling down her cheeks with every heartbeat she heard through her chest. Her hair was littered to the floor, covering her as a security blanket almost; her sobs were silent due to the fact that her hand was pressed tightly over her mouth, teeth nearly biting into her pale skin, preventing, purposefully, the sounds of her pain entering the world.<p>

Barry had told her that Wally had left her one last message as he disappeared into thin air, grasping at the words. The older speedster had never looker, well, old as she'd seem him as he removed his cowl and without looking her in the eye, told her that her boyfriend had said he loved her.

She nearly choked at the memory, and for a split second she actually hoped she would; at least if she died they would be together.

But the sharp sound of Brucely's nails brought her back to focus. She took a shaky breath that nearly shattered her composure, before blindly feeling the biting metal of the doorknob and pushing it open.

She threw her head back and it hit the wall with a shattering _crack_ and she winced, but refused to show any other sign of pain - even while alone, she wouldn't. She _couldn't_.

There was a cold nose gently nudging her finger tips and she tilted her head slightly to greet the slobbery face staring back at her. Brucely's tail was wagging slightly, his crumpled nose forming a smile of sorts. But the dog seemed hesitant almost, as if he could sense something was wrong.

Then his nose moved to the thin, white object in her hand, the source of her pain, his teeth gently grazing it. She jerked it away from him, pulling the piece closer to her chest, the pink plus flashing against the lights of the bathroom.

_Pregnant_, the picture taunted her. She was _pregnant_.

And quite suddenly, the tears fell against, mixed with the blood tricking down from her scalp from where she'd hit her head. Her fingers, previously hanging loose over her knees, now slipped downwards, past the stretch of jeans covering her thighs and onto the smooth plane of her stomach, exposed by means of her shirt having ridden up.

Her thumb stroked an invisible bump, thoughts flying into the air. Around her, white tests of different types now being sniffed by Brucely. They all carried the same emblem of two pinks lines, save the one that actually carried the word on it. It had been the eighth time, the object in her hand, that she had cracked. The little baby inside of her was the only link she had left to Wally - the only link _anyone_ had left to him.

She swallowed, Brucely having moved onto licking her bare toes. The tiled room suddenly seemed to nearly to be closing in on her, so she moved her fingers from her stomach to her face, rubbing away the tears before shakily bracing herself against the walk, pushing herself up.

She braced herself against the sink with one hand, the other feeling among her hair for a cut. She could see in the mirror a terrified twenty year old with red eyes and as if in a flash, it hit her - she was going to be a _mother_.

Of a child with a dead father.

She took a shaky breath, fingers moving to grasp a strand of her hair, one taunted with blood. First, a shower. Second - maybe a haircut.

* * *

><p><em>This is just a little one-shot, WILL NOT BE CONTINUED.<em>

_Thanks!_


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